


The cold that won't go away

by commanderlurker (honeybee592)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cats, F/M, Fail sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:52:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8617645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee592/pseuds/commanderlurker
Summary: Iron Bull discovers the cause of his chronic cold.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline setting:  
> After Demands of the Qun, before Tough Love.  
> Between Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, and Here Lies the Abyss.

 

A storm raged outside, wind whipping the tower and throwing snow against the windows, but none of that cold seeped into Grace’s chambers--not with the windows and doors closed and locked, curtains pulled and fire roaring. Bull had had Krem stack a pile of wood against the wall so neither Bull nor Grace would have have any reason to leave. He had grand plans this afternoon. Right now he knelt while Grace stood, the two of them naked, on a bear skin rug in front of the fire. Ribbons were the theme for the day. Something new. He told her to keep still, feet apart, her hands clasped behind her head. Bull wound a length of yellow ribbon up and down her legs and torso--tight, but without restricting her limbs. Might be a while before he could try that. Got to ease her into this first. He dropped kisses on her ticklish spots and teased her when she squirmed. One of the cats played with the end of the ribbon. Another rubbed its way through a figure eight against Grace’s leg, then Bull’s then Grace’s again. A third lay on a chair and watched, judging.

Not long after starting, Bull’s nose started to run. His eyes prickled, lungs wheezing. He may have told her to stay silent, but she asked if he was okay after a particularly unsexy sniff. He blamed the cold.

”But the windows are closed. We’re nice and warm in here,” Grace said.

He shrugged it off and kept going. He could hide his reactions no problem but he couldn’t hide a runny nose and itchy eye. He told Grace to turn around so he could afford himself the space to tilt his head back and let the snot run down his throat. But slowly, slowly, he lost the mood, lost the soft, quiet atmosphere as his fingers shook, and his concentration faulted. A single tear ran down his cheek and damn if that didn’t sum up this whole endeavour. He wiped his nose then slipped his hand between Grace’s legs, stroking her, trying to make her come quick so he could leave, down a mug of Cabot’s finest, then sleep off this fucking cold. Crap, he resented that. Since when did the Iron Bull half-ass a job? He _always_ gave his best, but his best was shit when he felt like this.

Grace peered over her shoulder, frowning. Not what he wanted when he had his finger on her clit.

“Do you want to stop?” she asked. “We could have tea instead. I could call for tea.”

Bull shook his head while swallowing another throat full of snot. Grace looked him up and down, eyebrow raised, until Bull slipped a finger inside and pulled on the knotted ribbon. Then her eyes slipped closed and she whimpered. Much better.

But he should have called it off. He could’ve. He wasn’t the only one bound by the watch word. But he was too proud. He soldiered on, worked away, casually brushing her tits as he wound the ribbon around her front to her back.

The sneeze caught him by surprise. It fizzed in the tip of his nose. His hands were around her belly, wound in ribbon. He couldn’t let go, not in time. He sucked in a breath, then clamped his jaw shut, tongue planted at the roof of his mouth--every intention of making the sneeze silent.

His nose had other ideas. Even if he’d managed to stay quiet, she’d’ve notice the jerk in his arms. The cat beside them skittered at the sudden movement, darting away.

“Bull!” That wasn’t his name moaned in ecstasy. That was indignation. “Did you _sneeze_ on me?”

He looked at her back. “Uh…”

She glared over her shoulder, trying to inspect the damage. “You did! I can feel it!”

She looked like she was expecting him to say something so he apologised. “I’m sorry, really. Here, I’ll wipe it--”

He sneezed again. At least he caught it in the crook of his elbow this time.

Grace stepped away, hands by her side now. “Katoh.”

The syllables clicked in his ears. His heart sank. So this was how it ended. He looked up her, expecting--and seeing--anger, disappointment. _It’s been a good run, Bull, but you had to go and push yourself._ She pulled her shoulder with her opposite hand, peering over, trying to assess the damage. Ribbons unfurled and pooled on the floor.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He felt so stupid kneeling on the ground, naked, with a soft cock and a bruised ego. He reached for his pants. Damn, he needed to get her a towel. Least he could do was clean her up.

Grace let go of herself and frowned at Bull. She grabbed his pants before he could but didn’t hand them over. She wiped her back with them instead. He deserved that.

“You didn’t hurt me.” She spoke softly. “You just… I know you’re sick, but if you’re sick, we shouldn’t be doing this.”

For once, he didn’t know what to say. His brain was all foggy and his lungs were tight.

“Let’s… call it a day, okay? Go and get some rest.” She handed him his pants, unwound the remaining ribbon and tiptoed over to the bed to grab her robe. “I liked this, a lot. I like it when you tell me to stand still, or stay quiet. I like it when you make me laugh. I like it when you touch my… boobs, and make it look like an accident.”

“But you don’t like being sneezed on. Got it.” Bull would’ve sighed with relief had he been able to take a deep breath. She wasn’t kicking him out for good and she wanted to go again. Thank fuck.

She cupped his cheek, gaze scanning his face. He leant up for a kiss but she leant back.

“You look awful.” She laughed. “You eye is all red and you’ve got…” she poked his cheek then wiped her finger on his shoulder.

Once he was sure no lasting damage had been done, he left her for the afternoon, wheezing his way down the stairs to the main hall. Before stopping off to see Stitches, _again_ , he cornered one of the kitchen servants and asked for a plate of Grace’s favourite cheeses to be sent up to her. That should keep her happy. Maybe, for times like this, he should introduce her to those warming runes, the ones she could nestle against her cunt. Then she could pleasure herself. He could even tell her how to touch herself. In Tevinter, you could even get runes that rumbled. Bull didn’t know how they worked. Probably blood-magic. But even then…

He hunched over as he walked through the snow storm across the keep to the Chargers camp. Despite the vicious wind, people milled around. A lot of people. All wrapped up in blankets. He pushed his way through to a chorus of grumblings and found himself under an awning. The wind died away and the place was warm, even. Muddy puddles on the ground and even more people. But orderly. All in a line. A queue? What the fuck? He stomped to the front, ignoring the disgruntled murmurs of the group, to find Dalish sitting at a desk.

“Hello, Chief!” she said. “I’m sorry, but you’ll need to go to the back of the line.”

“What?”

“First come first served.”

His head hung as he wandered back and waited. At least he was inside the tent. As he shuffled forward with the rest of the people, he tried to wrap his head around what was happening. All he wanted was a couple of poultices from Stitches. That’d see him right again. Then he’d retreat to the Tavern and Cabot would see him right, too. He couldn’t figure it out though, his head all stuffed up. Shitty weather making him sick and cock-blocking him.

Once at the front of the queue, he encountered Dalish again.

“Name please,” she asked, all breezy.

“You know my name, Dalish.”

“Yes, but I need it for the records.” She held up a board very similar to Josephine’s--complete with the candle. He couldn’t read what was on the paper with his eye all running.

He frowned as he stated his name.

Dalish scribbled on her board then handed him a flat piece of wood. It had the number eight etched on it.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Please, Ser The Iron Bull. Take a seat over here.” Dalish gestured to a semicircle of chairs to the side of the awning, a fire pit roaring in the centre. “Doctor Stitches will be with you shortly.”

“Doctor Stitches? What the fuck is this? This is _my_ camp.” He went to barge forward but Dalish was out of her chair, blocking Bull before he could make a move.

“Ser, no need to get angry. Doctor Stitches _is_ very popular so it’s not uncommon to have to wait. Especially with the weather the way it’s been.” She took him by the arm and led him to a free chair. As he sat down, she patted him. She gave a smile and returned to her desk to take the details of the next patient.

The fire warmed him and while he waited, his nose cleared. He hacked up a few mouthfuls of snot and swallowed them down when he caught the reproach of his fellow patients. He slumped back, arms crossed, muttering curses against Stitches as the man himself popped his head out the tent flap. The assembled patients all glanced up, hopeful that their turn would be next.

“Number five!” he called.

Number five jumped up while the others all sighed and stared at the fire again.

Bull wasn’t one to stay idle. While he waited, he thought about Grace, thought about how she’d changed since he’d started keeping her wheels greased. No one had said anything yet, but Bull had noticed the changes. How she walked straighter, head high, instead of hunched and scared. She scowled less and sometimes the smile she gave when she got caught off guard by some simpering visitor was even genuine, not that fixed statue smile she’d trained herself to use. Yeah, he was arrogant enough to take the credit for her new-found ease, but smart enough to know that he couldn’t take all the credit. Dorian shared Bull’s role as confidant--and didn’t that piss off a few people. The Inquisitor in the pockets of an ox man and an evil blood mage. Ha! Both Josephine and Leliana had their work cut out for them, that was for sure. They didn’t know the half of it though. Just think what would happen if they knew just how deep Bull had buried himself in Grace. Literally! Two weeks ago he’d gotten her loose and relaxed enough to fully take him for the first time. She’d cried from the sheer pleasure of it and damn if a tear hadn’t formed in Bull’s eye either.

The sex was good for Bull, too. Having a purpose outside of hitting things helped settle his fears, helped him sleep better. He tried not to think about that part too much. Just concentrated on Grace and her needs. The rest would take care of itself.

“Number eight!” Stitches called.

Wait, was that…. That was him! That was Bull! He waved his block of wood like he’d won a prize and Stitches ushered him further into the tent. That’s when he took rein of his senses again.

“What the fuck is going on? Dalish made me wait out in the cold. Who are all these people?”

“Sick people, Chief. Come looking for me once they heard about how good my treatments were. I may not be a mage, but I can heal just as good as one.” Stitches puffed his chest out and Bull didn’t blame him for being proud. The man certainly made the best poultices around. “What’s the problem?”

Bull sniffed, his nose clear. He rubbed his eye only it wasn’t itchy. “I’m sick. Or, I was.”

Stitches rested his chin on his fist and hmmed, examining Bull with piercing eyes. “Like last time?”

Bull nodded.

“And the time before that?”

He nodded again.

“But you’re feeling better now?”

More nods.

“Have you been with the Inquisitor recently?”

Bull huffed. “Didn’t even get to fuck her before this cold settled in.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, you didn’t just hear that.”

Stitches held his hands up. “Doctor-patient confidentiality is key to my practice.” He continued to ask questions, needling Bull about the previous times he’d been sick, where he’d been, who he’d been with, how long it’d lasted. Bull’s throat was parched from all the talking. He just wanted the damn poultice and to chase it down with a bottle whiskey, and started saying so when Stitches interrupted, all smug.

“You’re allergic,” he said.

“What?”

“You only get sick when you’re in an enclosed space with Your Grace. Once you step outside, or go adventuring, you’re fine again. Like now.”

That… didn’t make any sense. “I’m allergic to Grace.” Fuck. He’d have to end it now, wouldn’t he? He didn’t want to, he was doing good work for her.

“No, not her, idiot. Her cats.”

“What?” Never had Bull failed to grasp a situation quite like this one.

“Stay here a moment.” Stitches ducked out the tent. He came back a moment later holding a cat under its front legs, its body swaying in time with Stitches’ gait. Before Bull could object, he rubbed the cat all over Bull’s face, cooing encouragements to both the cat and Bull. Bull sputtered from fur in his mouth and under his eyepatch. Stitches dumped the cat into Bull’s hands and sat back down.

“Now what?” Bull asked.

“Now we wait.”

Sure enough, Bull wrinkled his nose, the itch flaring up. He rubbed his eye and it started to run. The skin under his eyepatch itched. He coughed and sneezed, scaring the cat off his lap. It bounded away with a hiss. Bull glared at Stitches.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Smug bastard was enjoying this far too much.

“What do we do now?”

“Short of getting rid of all the cats in Skyhold, or never fucking the Inquisitor again, you mean?”

That wasn’t an option. He didn’t want it to be.

“Don’t worry, you big lummox. I’ll knock something up for you. Something proper so you don’t run me out of poultices all the time.”

Oh, thank fuck.

Stitches wrote something down on his pile of paper. “You’ll have to wait though. I make up my remedies first thing in the morning.” He ripped a strip off the paper and handed it to Bull. “You can collect it from Rocky any time after lunch tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?!” And Rocky was part of this operation, too? Shit.

“You’re not dying. Now get out. Number nine might be and I have a record number of not-dead patients this week.” Stitches pushed Bull out of the tent and called his next patient.

Bull wandered away, still bewildered about what had just happened. Still, if he wasn’t sick, just allergic to cats, then that was fine! He’d be able to keep fucking Grace and he wouldn’t sneeze on her again. He laughed as he tucked his prescription in his pocket. He could run up there right now and tell her, maybe pick up where they’d left off. But then he sneezed once, twice… four times. Fucking cats. He’d just have to wait. No matter. Anticipation was good.

He kicked the door open to the tavern and took a deep breath, filled his nose with ash and smoke, stale and spilt ale. Yeah, home.


End file.
